It’s Raining [Old] Men

Can’t guys—men!—pick on someone their own age?

Lately, I’ve been getting all these offers from old dudes. Like… over 50. I mean, c’mon, guys! I’m in my 20s!

I actually like older mean—my ex is in his early 40s. But, at some point, May-December is just gross.

Still, I appreciated the humor of one of my recent hopeful geriatrics:

“I can’t say that I blame you,” he said, after I told him I thought he was too old for me. “While we may get along famously in the short run, one can’t help but look ahead to the time when you would have to wheel me around and change my respirator hose on a schedule. :-)”

So true!!

I once dated a guy who was 14 years older than me. We got along super well, and I truly loved him. Needless to say, it didn’t work out … but maybe it was for the best! Even when we were totally happy, I sometimes wondered what things would be like in 20 years, when I was 40 and still vivacious as ever, and he was old-manning it up, grandpa style, 54 years old and counting.

The math only gets worse as the years go on.

It’s kind of funny, when you think about it: Age matters when you’re young (15 dating a 29 year old?! Gross!), then not so much when you’re in your middle ages (30 and 44? No problem!), but it gets to be a major drag once old age sets in (60 vs. 74? No thanks…)

What do you guys thing? How old is too old?

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Epic #Fail

I tried, I failed.

The reconciliation with the ex was a massive, heart-wrenching failure. Chalk it up to one, big boo urns.

I won’t get into specifics, because it really doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with me; it  has everything to do with his ex, ego, and refusal to lay in the bed that he made for himself years ago.

Alas, it seems that some people never grow up. Regardless of what they say, or what they may want, deep down, their inner Peter Pan prevails.

And with that, my singledom has been restored, and I’m back, right where I started.

Here we go… again…

PS: Guys, for the record, it doesn’t make it any easier when, in the midst of breaking up, you tell the girl that you love her. In fact, it makes it worse. Same goes for all the “I think you’re amazing,” and “if only the timing had been different” bullshit. Skip it. Thank you. Sincerely, womankind.

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Hitting the Pause Button

My lack of updates over the past few days might seem to suggest that I’ve been slacking off, but I’ve actually been really busy.

No, not busy going on dates—I’ve been busy talking and thinking and trying not to puke. Alas, I have the best worst news: My ex and I are revisiting our relationship, or lackthereof. Whatever you call our sordid, status-free affair, we’ve decided it’s not done yet, and are giving it another go. Or, should I say, giving it another look, to see if we should give it another go.

So while we try to figure out where to go from here, I won’t be going on any dates with other guys. And so ends the 30 Dates in 30 Days challenge.

It is with mixed feeling that I have to put my dating extravaganza on an indefinite hold. It was a fun and exciting week, but a difficult one, too. We’ll see what happens with the pseudo BF. (I told him about my date-a-thon, and he was NOT impressed.)

I’ll definitely keep y’all posted… and after a brief hiatus, will continue to blog about relationship and singlehood stuff, regardless of what happens.

Wish me luck—whatever that may be.


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So Maybe Las Vegas isn’t the Worst City in America to Meet a Man…

It’s no secret that I think Las Vegas is an extremely hard city to meet men.
Or, should I say, date men. You can meet all sorts of guys here… but the good ones—ones who actually live here, and aren’t just staying at the Wynn or holding court in the VIP at Tao over the weekend—are hard to find.
Knowing this, it was rather shocking to learn that Sin City didn’t even rank in Marie Claire’s poll of the 7 Worst Cities to Meet Men.
So what centers made the depressing cut? Peter Pan-prone Austin; procrastination destination Boston; fratty Chicago; aspiring model-actress-sugar baby-filled L.A.; impossibly overrun New York and, with its unbelievable girl-to-guy ratio; and nerd-filled Seattle & SF.
I’m surprised that Miami and D.C. didn’t make the list… oh well.
Accurate or not, the overview did include a few noteworthy (and sometimes encouraging) details for women who find themselves looking for love in one of the places:

  • The average Boston guy gets married when he’s 30, which is among the oldest marriage age in the nation. Still, they do get married, eventually.
  • 66% of the population in Chicago consists of “families,” and the divorce rate is well below the national average.
  • There are 200,000 more single women in New York than there are single men. (No good way to spin that one, sorry)
  • Seattle is “the computer-assisted dating capital of the U.S.,” while San Fran is online dating ground zero. Still, nearly half of Bay Area guys have taken the plunge in real life, and walked down the aisle. Curiously enough, the article doesn’t mention whether or not they actually stay married…

So perhaps my chances of finding love in Las Vegas aren’t that bad… Or maybe they are, and because they’re so incredibly dismal, the staff at MC didn’t bother putting Vegas on the list. Why state the obvious?
Either way, I remain hopeful that one day I’ll beat the odds—whatever they may be.

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Inside the Male Brain

I am constantly trying to understand men, dating and relationships. So far, not so good—I’m still single, and have a knack for getting my heart broken.

However! I am trying to change this, and am currently on three online dating sites, one of which being eHarmony.

Needless to say, it doesn’t look like I’ll be staring in any of those happily-ever-after, “I found my match” commercials any time soon.

However! There are a lot of resources on the site (and I’ve already mentioned how to sign up for the service for a fraction of the original cost—but here’s the link again, in case you missed it.)

One link off the eH site caught my attention: A Q&A with Louann Brizendine, M.D., who write the book, Inside the Male Brain.

While I found most of the article to be useless phooey, Brizendine made three rather interesting observations to keep in mind—whether you’re male or female:

  • Love = sex for men, talk for women: Men think “she loves me” because “she wants to have sex with me”; women think “he loves me” because “he wants to talk to me.”
  • If a woman wants to talk about their relationship, she should have sex with her partner first (to reassure him and make him feel safe), then suggest they go for a walk or a drive where she can bring up the topic while sitting or walking side-by-side rather than face-to-face.
  • Men and women both think about sex a lot, but the male brain’s sexual pursuit area is 2.5 times larger than a female’s, and produces 10 times the testosterone, which fuels sexual desire.
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The Longest Dinner Date of my Life

It took just three minutes for me to realize the next three hours were going to be extremely painful.

Only 180 seconds after saying hello, he started telling me how his classic “theventy-theven” car broke down on his way to the date.

Theventy-theven? Oh! Seventy-Seven! Oh, crap.

That’s right, ladies and gents: My date had a lisp. A bad one. And it was not long after that that I realized I was on a date with a grown-up version of Paul Smart, the geekiest kid in my fifth grade class. Touche, karma; ya got me.

He was a nice enough guy, but he was a through-and-through nerd—and this is coming from me, and I usually like nerdy guys! Realizing there was nothing I could do to cure him of his speech impediment or science club sensibilities, I accepted the fact that my Friday night date was doomed for pocket-protector-induced failure. I guess I could have faked sick, or pretended to have to run off to some sort of emergency, but I didn’t think that would be fair. He just drove 2.5 hours, from his home in rural Nevada to Las Vegas, to go on this silly date; the least I could do was show up. And I was already an hour late when I arrived, thanks to a crazy day at the office. Whoops.

We met at the lobby bar at Mandalay Bay and ordered a round of drinks. As he told me about his theventy-theven classic, his ongoing family drama (Note: “My dad lives in a trailer” isn’t sexy) and ongoing tensions at work, I back my cocktail, wishing it was a double.

From there, we went to the Shark Reef Aquarium, which was kinda cool, I guess, but not the sort of thing that I’d recommend to anyone over the age of, oh, 10-years-old. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to explore the entire thing—30 minutes from start to finish, maybe—so we were done before we knew it.

I checked my watch and realized, crap! we still had a ton of time before I’d have to go. (Since he was making a special trip to Vegas to go on this date, I told him I had a work function to be at at 9 p.m., so he wouldn’t get any ideas about an all-nighter (or, worse yet, one-nighter) in Vegas.

As we left the Shark Reef ahead of schedule, I silently thanked the tardy gods who made me an hour late—had I been on time, things really would have been painful. We went to Lupo for dinner, which was fine. I had an appetizer-sized salad with a side of ricotta gnocchi; he had house-made thick-cut noodles and sauce. I ordered a glass of cabernet; he ordered “something red.” The waiter brought two of the same. While we picked at our food, he told me about his time abroad as an intern in Italy, and his plans for the rest of the summer. I checked my Blackberry a lot, and texted my ex to tell him that I miss him. (With every date I go on, I miss him more; it’s super annoying.) I looked at the time—it was 7:38 p.m.

At one point, my date sat with his noodle-filled fork in the air for a good five minutes, too busy telling me a story (which I can’t remember, which indicates just how riveting it really was) to eat it. I wanted to scarf my food and run, but managed to find both patience and restraint, and paced myself accordingly. (I think my good Samaritan medal is in the mail, as is my one-way ticket to Hell.)

We eventually finished our food and our wine, the table was cleared, and the check came… and nothing happened. He just kept talking and talking and talking some more.

At that point, I realized that he had nothing else to do that night—he was going to be alone in Las Vegas, with no one to hang out with or entertain him. Again, I figured the least I could do was listen to his stories and pretend to be mildly interested in what he had to say for another hour or so, which I did. Then, with the check still sitting on the table at 8:30 p.m., I told him I had to go to the restroom. I excused myself from the table and scurried across the fake cobblestone walkway to freedom, a.k.a. the loo.

Bathroom breaks are like coffee breaks for weary daters. They give us a chance to relax, check our personal e-mail, and decompress from the rat race. And like coffee breaks, they never seem to be long enough.

When I returned from my mini getaway, my date was waiting outside the restaurant.

Thank god! We can go!

He said he noticed the time, and he didn’t want to make me late. (I told you he was nice!)

So without further ado, he walked me to my car, I said my thank-yous and have-a-good-nights, and that was that. I gave him what I like to call “the hug of death” (you don’t hug a date goodbye unless you never want to see him again!), then got into my car and drove away, knowing I’ll never see him again.

He texted me later that night; I didn’t text back. He e-mailed the next day, I didn’t respond. He texted again on Sunday, and I finally replied, saying I had been really busy since we had last seen each other. He texted something back, but I ignored it. Now that it’s all said and done, I’m left wondering if I should have done things differently. Was it right for me to go through with the date, even though my heart wasn’t in it and I knew it would go nowhere? Or should I have called the whole thing off as soon as I realized we weren’t a good match, and therefore spared him the time and expense of a doomed date that he didn’t realize was destined to fail?

Originally, I thought what I did—going through with it—was the right thing to do (again, especially considering he made a 5-hour round-trip drive to do it), but now I’m thinking that maybe I should have just smiled and told him that while he seemed nice, it was clear to me that it just wasn’t going to work.

What do you think? E-mail me, or leave a comment below.

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Sexting Before the 1st Date? Red Flag!

Remember the episode of Sex and the City when Carrie wonders if all men are freaks? I’m starting to think she was onto something. Dating is a freak show.

Case in point: This guy, Fergus. I met him online, innocently enough. We exchanged a few e-mails; no worries. He asked for my number, I gave it to him… only to receive the most offensive text messages of my life.

[Caution: Reader discretion advised.

It started off innocently enough—Hey, what’s up, blah blah—but it went south quick. And by quick, I mean from friendly to freaky in three text messages, flat.

The dialogue:

Hey Rose. This is Fergus. What’s up?
Hey there. I’m just at the gym, trying to sneak in a workout. Busy day!! You?

Same.  LVAC?
Naw. My complex has a gym.

Do you wanna devour my freshly shaved cock and sac while I finger and eat your pussy and ass before fucking?
Aaaaaaand we’re done.

Eat my ass out while I beat off in your face and pinch your nipples.
[no reply]

…. Gross, right?!?


I’m just glad I didn’t waste my time meeting this creep in person. Honestly, he sounds like a predator—I’m glad he doesn’t know what I look like in real life, or what car I drive, or anything like that. The whole thing serves as a good reminder for me to follow the self-imposed rules I detailed in my original 30 Dates in 30 Days post—the ones about telling my friends where I’m going, and who I’ll be meeting there, especially.

I hope this post didn’t disgust or freak you out too much. Instead, I hope it reminds all the other single girls out there to be careful.

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